Good enough for me
by Lock Lokidottir
Summary: Three years after Sherlock's death, Lestrade and John have a drink and remisince... Then they sit and watch a zombie movie. Interesting and amusing results as Sherlock chooses *that moment* to come back from Richenbach! Rate and review please! Sherlock x


_Rate and review please- I get bombed with emails telling me that people have favourited, but not reviewed! Reviews means alot to me- so any tips, what you liked/disliked is much appreciated._

_Enjoy!_

_S x_

* * *

'Y'know,' a drunken John slurred while underlying the point with a jab of his hand. 'If anyone at all would become a zombie, it'd be Sherlock.'

'Hm,' replied Greg, squinting at John in the dim light. 'Probably do it just to prove a point-'

Both grown men cringed as a zombie was sliced in half by a lunatic on the screen. The strange buzzing, the sound of a massive chainsaw meeting skull with a sickening crack was enough to make John's stomach lurch. He knew it had been a bad idea to drink on an empty stomach and he knew he'd pay for it later. Or now.

'Just for a point. He'd try and prove us all wrong, given the challenge.' Greg finished, sitting back straighter in his chair. 'Typical Sherlock.'

'Yes…. Zombie Sherlock.' John hicked, his breath jarring his body 'H-he left himself to science, I think,' John squinted as he tried to remember, but his brain was just so foggy bits of colour swirled around his head like smoke. 'O-or Mycroft did something… can't remember.'

Greg giggled at John as he screwed his face up (he just looked so cute that way!), and John soon joined in. After a few minutes, John tried to sober up, squaring his shoulders. However, he let himself down with the god-damned lisp that he had as a child. It now only came back when he was drunk.

'Thith- wait,_ thith_… Shit, Greg, I can't thay it!'

Greg burst into another fit of giggles as he slid down the sofa. John looked at him, bright eyed, and Greg stared back with a bemused expression.

'What would Sherlock test, do y'think?'

'Greg, how the hell would I know?'

'Well, I dunno…' Greg started to toss the empty can between his hands, fingers dancing over the cool metal. 'I thought he might just say… as a passing thing.'

John looked at Greg, his eyebrows somewhere near his flaxen hair. Lestrade tried to stare back, not breaking- heck, not even blinking- trying to look as innocent as possible.

'Lestrade, you can practically hear your brain working. Me and Sherlock weren't a couple.'

Lestrade dropped his façade, and now it was his silvery eyebrows in his own hair.

'Well…. You sort of were.'

John slapped his head, amber beer sloshing in its glass and leaving a foamy trail as it went. There were some screams in the background, but they were just background noise- both men's attention were turned completely on each other.

'We weren't, Greg. End of-'

'Hang on, here me out!' Lestrade protested, getting himself up off the floor and sitting back down in the armchair in an effort to look more dignified. 'You went through a period of mourning, you were the two closest people I've ever met. You solved crimes together, blogged about it and he made you better- and you made _him _better. There was love, John, romantic or brotherly I'm not sure. But there was, most defiantly love.'

John looked at Greg and pondered this for a few minutes, long after the man opposite had turned his attention back onto the flickering screen.

_Greg, I do think you're drunk. You do love to get philosophical. _

'Fine.' He huffed, with some resignation of someone who'd long grown used to everyone wondering about him and the consulting detective. 'I liked him, yeah, but I never said. Not a psychopath, bu-

'-'But a high functioning sociopath,'' Greg smiled. ''Anderson, do your research.' I thought I was the only one who remembered that. But sociopaths don't love, but Sherlock wasn't a sociopath. He cared, John.'

John smiled to try and mask the tears that brimmed and threatened to spill over. Greg cleared his throat and decided to stare at the skull that had been creepily watching them for the past few hours.

'What would be worse than a zombie Sherlock?' Greg asked suddenly, his head snapping up to meet John's sapphire blue eyes.

John quietly pondered this for a few seconds, until-

'Hm…. I dunno. A zombie Mycroft?'

Greg collapsed into hysterical giggles once again, not realising that the army doctor was very serious.

'Really, a zombie Mycroft. I mean, the things Sherlock did to common sense, I wouldn't be surprised if he could make physics curl up in a corner and sob… but I just couldn't see it. But Mycroft... he'd kill all the officials, whether HE was the zombie, or if they were pissing him off at the time. England would fall.'

'Huh… what do they come under anyway? Zombies, I mean, not goverment officials. Would it be human anatomy?'

John screwed up his forehead again, then cringed as another zombie had its head lopped off, the body falling lifeless on the floor. The scarlet blood spatter reminded him painfully of that day… the day when Sherlock jumped.

_Come on, Watson, snap out of it! It's been three years already!_

But… John was sure that the next shudder had nothing to do with his drunkenness. The drunkard next to him was aware of the torment in the doctors head. Greg gently rested his hand on the soldiers arm.

'Hey, John, you okay?'

John's breath shuddered again. He put on a smile.

'Human anatomy, and biochemistry.'

'Bio what?'

'That's what zombies would come under. Human anatomy and biochemistry- there you are, a useless bit of information. Don't say I never give you anything.'

'You know that _how?'_ Greg asked, bemused.

'It was on a test I gave the lads in the squad. All fun, mind you-' he said, smiling at Gregs face which was becoming more and more confused by the second. '-we had some horror mad guys on the squad, and I was actually curious- I'd just completed my doctorate for anatomy at the time.'

'Oh?' Greg laughed, cracking open another beer can with a sharp _'Hiss'._ 'What did you find out?'

'I found out Afghanistan's the worst place to be turned into a zombie. At the rate you'd decay, if the virus didn't kill you, the sun would dry out moist skin and you'd fall apart.'

And Donovan and Anderson had always been very confused as to why a perfectly 'sane' _Doctor_ _John Watson_ would flat share with Sherlock Holmes.

Great minds do think alike. And, apparently, so do absolutly insane ones.

'D'y recon you'd survive?' Squinted Greg, trying to stop his hand from tilting. 'How'd you survive an outbrake anyway? How would the hospitals cope?'

'Oh yeah, I'd survive.' John grinned. 'What with all the stuff I keep around the flat, I think I'd have a good chance. But I wouldn't bother working, if I'm honest. Too dangerous- where do people first go when someone gets bitten or goes down with an unknown virus? You see it on the telly- when the flu comes out, everyone's suddenly clutching their throats and croaking _'Actually, I don't feel too good!'_ They panic and flood the hospital now- when people start turning into zombies, people are going to more than panic. So yeah, I'd survive-What about you?'

'Maybe. I've got enough weapons to stock a shop, but I'd probably get stuck doing something stupid or proud. Probably both.'

Both men laughed.

'Is it just me-' the both jumped as a ditzy-blond woman had her head devoured by a hungry horde, and her boyfriends stomach ripped, revealing pink and orange pulsing organs. '-or can you imagine Sherlock as a zomb-'

John and Gregs heart stuttered as someone knocked at the door.

'Shit!' Lestrade's glass shattered on the floor as his fingers lost their grip.

John exhaled. His heart froze once again as three long knocks sounded, the person on the other side of the door seemed impatient.

'Oh my god!' Drunken Greg sat in his chair, petrified, his eyes slightly unfocused. 'No, no, no, no, no, no-'

'Greg, calm down!' John barked as his thoughts and training snapped into action. 'Its only someone at the door.'

'Who the bloody hell calls at _one_ _in the morning?_' Greg howled as John got up to answer the door. 'No, John, don't!'

John rolled his eyes as he crossed the room, Greg launching himself and managing to trip up. However, Greg was ghosting behind him as he walked down the long corridor to the door.

His heart in his throat, John looked through the pane of glass- a large and tall mans silhouette, his head (or whereabouts John assumed to be) framed by a curly black mass of hair. The man exhaled, releasing a plume of smoke into the air.

'Oh my god!' John said hoarsely. 'No, it can't… it can't be h-him. He's dead!'

The zombie idea didn't feel so far away now.

'Jesus Christ…' Greg whimpered, but he laughed shakily at John. 'You see Sherlock too?' He started to laugh hysterically and the head cocked to the side. 'The zombie idea isn't so fucking insane now is it?'

They both lurched back as the hand brushed against the glass. The chainsaw coming from the other room wasn't the best background music ever; It put them both on edge.

'John?'

Both men (something that they both, many years later, still denied) gave a sort of strangled screeches and ran up the length of 221B.

Suddenly, the front door clicked; John cursed himself for leaving a key underneath the doormat.

They both burst into the living room, and Greg slammed the door shut, but in his haste he succeeded in accidently trapping the good doctors finger's in the door too.

'-Ow, _Lestrade_ you're on my **_fucking fingers!'_**

'-Sorry, sorry, John-'

'-Ow, ouch! You just shut my fingers in there_ again!-_'

Nevertheless, Greg slammed the door shut again impatiently. The doctor placed his hand underneath his armpit and glared fearfully at the door.

'Do you have a lock?'

'No, who has locks on their living room doors?'

Greg looked around the dim room desperately as he heard footsteps approach. He grabbed the stool and wedged it under the door handle.

'Oh, god, we have an articulate zombie on our hands!'

'_What?'_

Greg nodded at the T.V screen, as another mad-man sliced a zombie in half- John swore that that movie had so much blood it was probably even possible for some of it to break it's reign on the T.V and leak into the living room.

'You think the person in my flat right now is a fucking zombie? Lestrade, you're insane!'

'Yeah, haven't you gathered?' Greg said breathlessly, pressing his weight against the door as the person on the other side pounded on it. 'I'd laugh so hard if it was Mrs Hudson!'

'Get the gun!'

'What? Gun?'

'Did I say gun? I meant something else!' John cried as he launched himself across the table, sending papers fluttering, and groped under the sofa. 'No, no, I meant katana! Machette! Sure I've got one here _somewhere-'_

'Oh god, we're going to die,' Lestrade said, his back against the door still. 'We are too drunk to defend ourselves against zombie attack- I can hardly walk, let alone _aim _straight. And now you're loosing it.' He held his heads in his hands, and groaned. 'All that riot training, _wasted.'_

There was a short pause, in which Lestrades slow brain clicked.

'Wait- John, do you even have a bloody _licence?'_

'For Gods sake John, I'm _not_ a zombie!' The angry Sherlock stopped pounding on the door and John could see (in his minds eye) Sherlock huffing and putting his hands bossily on his hips.

'That what they all say before they crack open our heads and eat our brains-!'

'-Why would I do that? There is nothing in there, and even if there was, your brains would be useless as nourishment anyway!-'

'See?' Lestrade said, bemused as a frown creased his flushed features. 'That is what zombies would say... if they could talk-' John glared at the drunkard from across the room. 'Okay, okay- just don't let him in!'

'John. Lestrade. I. Am. Not. A. Zombie! That's _rediculous!_'

Greg squinted at the doctor through the dim light.

'Ooh, I dunno. Still wanna risk it?'

'Lestrade, shut up. Zombies are not intellectual, let alone geniuses, you nonsensical morons!'

'Hah! Only _you_ would be the exception, Sherlock!' John shouted, tears smarting his eyes slightly, grabbing a box and flinging it upside down; when he realised there was nothing in it that could be useful he threw it aside. 'Smartest bloody zombie in his-'

'John?'

The sheer desperation of the word was enough to make his heart clench and scentance die in his throat. Lestrade eyed him, then his eyes flickered to the door, and back to John. The grip on his makeshift weapon loosened and it fell to the floor with a clatter.

'I'm sorry. I was never dead, I faked it- it wasn't me who jumped, it was a body double, and I promise I'll explain more… Moriarty was going to kill you, and Mrs Hudson, and even you Greg-'

'Hang on- what the bloody hell have_** I**_ done to piss them off?'

'-but I've missed you so much John, and I'm so _so_ sorry!' the Sherlock sounded like he was starting to sob. John's heart broke even more. 'It killed me, it did, I never meant to be away for so long. I-I just wanted you to be safe-'

The man on the other side of the door slid down it and onto the carpet. He curled up, his head on his knees. Tears started soaking through his trousers, and he didn't realise the door had lost its barricade, and the army doctor was looking down in surprise.

The taller man looked up with his red rimmed eyes, his dark curls framing his even thinner face.

'Believe me.' He said hoarsely, unfurling himself and standing up. 'I couldn't stay and have you hurt… I thought it would be better, but I've only made things worse. I'm so sorry, John Watson.' He looked down. bracing himself for the punch he thought was going to happen. 'Forgive me. _Please_.'

They paused, before the good doctor suddenly embraced the taller and ganglier man in a breath quenching hung. John sniffed, inhaling the scent that he had spent weeks dreaming about, feeling the warm body of the man embracing him and feeling Sherlock's breath tickle his ear.

Before he knew it, Doctor John Watson was crying.

John had promised himself, should the time ever come, should his fantasy ever be realised... he had promised he wouldn't cry.

If Sherlock _ever_ turned up alive, he wouldn't cry- he'd make sure that he'd beat the shit out of Sherlock first, tears later- however, John found that all his pent up anger he had gathered the last three years just evaporated.

_Poof_- it was simply gone.

John sobbed into the detectives suit as Sherlock cried silently, not really caring if the increasingly awkward Lestrade saw or not.

'-I've missed you so much, Sherlock-'

'-I know, I know-'

'I've dreamed of this moment,' he pulled away from Sherlock as he wiped his eyes on his sleeve. 'But you're here.' He traced the pale planes of his face, his cheekbones and nose. 'Really here. I'm not imagining, I haven't snapped-' John delicately danced around Sherlock's nose and eyebrows as he closed his eyes lazily like a cat in the sun.

Suddenly, John felt panicked as the eyelids drooped over Sherlock's blue-gray iris's.

'Don't, please!' John chocked out as the detectives eyes snapped open. 'Let me see you! I don't want you to disappear again. Not again, I can't lose you- It would kill me. Please, keep your eyes open-'

Sherlock frowned, his porcelain forehead creasing. He suddenly realised just how much he had hurt John by jumping off of Barts.

'John… I'm sorry. I won't leave you. I promise.'

'I know, Sherlock. I love you.'

The detective suddenly stiffened and both inspector and doctor cringed as they all realised what had been said.

'Oh, Christ- I-I…' John looked up desperately, searching Sherlock's poker face, trying to get words out of his mouth- however, they didn't come. He stood there, his mouth gaping. 'I didn't- oh man, I m-meant-'

Sherlock frowned again as his fingers brushed lightly over John's lips and smoothed his creased forehead out.

'I love you too, John.'

John blushed and hid his face in Sherlock's shoulder. Greg tried to blend into the wallpaper.

'How long?' Asked John, pulling away but entwining his hands around Sherlock's lean waist. Sherlock nuzzled into John's warm neck, and gently pressed his lips there. He never tried to stop the tears.

The lines between machine and human were becoming blurred. Sherlock was… feeling. A tear snaked down his face and fell onto John's jumper. He inhaled the smell of warm toast, orange tea, jam and peppermint... the smell of John; The smell of _home_.

Sherlock loved John, so much that the pressure was crushing him. He couldn't put it into words.

Sherlock then made a promise to himself, something that he had never told John, up until his husband and he were lying together, in the prime of old age.

_John, I will never leave you again_.

'Always.' Promised Sherlock. 'Always, forever… my love for you is immortal.'

John held Sherlock tighter and sniffed. Pulling away, John cupped Sherlock's face and a light kiss ghosted across his lips. Sherlock felt dizzy as John looked deeply into his eyes, bright blue meeting steel grey.

'That's good enough for me.'


End file.
